


peril, "torture," and the art of motorcycle maintenance

by newsbypostcard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Begging, Dirty Talk, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, see note for additional warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the one respect, being taken home after a mission on the back of his boyfriend's motorcycle is beyond humiliating.</p><p>In another… it is super fucking hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	peril, "torture," and the art of motorcycle maintenance

**Author's Note:**

> [kate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lupinely/works) said something idly a month ago kind of like "how stevebucky had sex on Steve's motorcycle," and because I am kind of new here I was so enthusiastic!!!! that I pranced off on my own and wrote this [gestures vaguely]. Fault lies wholly with me for what this became, of course, but we didn't start the fire, etc.
> 
> Some of the dirty talk describes a scenario that would easily be considered humiliation in a different context. I worked to make it feel very different here; the narrator is overwhelmingly stoked on it and does not feel degraded by what's being described. It could totally be considered degrading to others, though, so it's described in the bottom note if you're unsure if this is your jam.
> 
> You may also have to temporarily suspend belief in physics to make this work in your head, but it _is_ MCU, so don't we kind of always.

  


  


It’s not that the mission went _south_ , exactly.

“You overreacted,” Bucky tells Sam.

“You were _unconscious, tied to a post, drugged--_ ”

“I think you covered that with ‘unconscious’.”

“-- _tortured_ \--“

“Like, barely.”

“Oh my god. I don’t even want to _know_ what your paradigm for torture is.”

Bucky ignores this, as he’s sure Sam intended. “Did you call him back?”

“No,” says Wilson, and leaves Bucky scrambling to catch himself as Sam unties his hands before bothering with his feet.

“Will you do it now?” Bucky asks, false patience laid thick over the extreme annoyance bubbling in his chest.

“No,” Wilson says again, and Bucky is left to collapse onto the ground as Sam slices through the rope holding his feet behind the post, too.

He won’t give Bucky his phone, either. Bucky should really get his own. It’s just something about smartphones.

He’s standing outside trying to get a grip on leftover vertigo, hastily bandaged, when Steve screeches in.

On a _motorcycle._

Maybe it’s the remnants of the drug in his system, but Bucky feels his vision suddenly narrow into splintered focus.

Listen. Steve is _retired_. He doesn’t do this shit anymore. He doesn’t avenge. There’s nothing _to_ avenge, as far is Steve is concerned. Bucky can respect that. He’s done his time; it's Bucky's turn to atone. He's not sure why Wilson's doing it, but that doesn't matter as much as the fact that the two of them together seem to carry the load fine.

In this case, Bucky happened to get bested _as_ Captain America.

This unique combination of circumstances – plus the capture and the drugging and, yeah, okay, the _minor_ torture – had led Sam to panic and call Steve the second Bucky failed to make rendezvous.

“You didn’t prevent this?” Bucky had muttered to Nat after she’d fallen through the ceiling to incapacitate his captors and immediately informed him, with an awful smirk, that Steve was on his way.

“Nope,” she said shortly, and left him to wait for Sam to show up sighingly with a knife to set him free.

Now Steve is here, his _motorcycle_ (what.) screaming to a halt in some 180 in the middle of a busy street.

Steve's eyes find Bucky right away. He blinks at him, hands poised on the handlebars, legs splayed on either side of the bike as it comes to a halt somehow perfectly against the curb. He can see perfectly well that Bucky is _fine_ , but he barely hesitates before slamming down the kickstand and leaping over the bike toward him.

There's something in the juxtaposition of it, the way Steve's wearing his civilian garb and yet riding in like the god damned cavalry, that gets Bucky's blood pumping.

It's oddly similar to the feeling Bucky used to get to see him in his Cap uniform, during the war.

He's helpless but to stand there and watch as Steve strides toward him with extreme intention. He is a man possessed, not stopping until both hands have taken Bucky's face between them. "Are you hurt?" Steve says when he gets within range, and it's that low voice, the one that roots under his skin, and Bucky can feel the tremor in his hands where his thumbs stroke at his jaw.

"I'm fine." Bucky hangs onto Steve's wrist with one hand and tugs at his jacket with the other, awfully glad to see him all of a sudden, even if he is still dead mortified that all this fuss has been made over _nothing_. "Wilson overreacted."

"You got kidnapped."

"I got _captured._ Infants get kidnapped."

"Okay, then, captured. I heard you got tortured, too, how's that word for you?"

"Overused."

Steve is already tugging open the Cap uniform, looking for evidence of this so-called 'torture.' "Jesus Christ, Bucky."

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Don't charm your way out of this. You need medical attention."

"I'm patched up already, all I need is a lie-down and a glass of ovaltine."

"Don't joke about this." Steve can give up the title, but he can't quite get rid of that Captain America businessline jaw.

"Seriously, Steve, it's not that bad."

Steve presses a hand to where a bandage covers a significant percentage of his torso as though to wait for Bucky's resulting flinch and yeah, okay, it could be he was _moderately_ tortured. "Have you _looked_ down in the last few minutes?"

"Possible I'm a _bit_ cut up."

Steve is furious, with him and in general, but he still has this goddamn tenderness that drives Bucky to ruin. Bucky's mask was torn off long ago, but Steve traces the line where it would've set around his eyes regardless. His fingers tuck the stray strands of Bucky's hair behind his ears where they've fallen out from where it's tied back, his anger no match for his abiding concern.

They are public in a very real sense, but Bucky steps closer to him anyway, taken in by his gentleness.

"What happened," Steve says, but it's not quite a question. It sounds like an apology.

"Shut up," Bucky says. His voice has matched Steve in that low pitch, but he can't help the way arousal stirs in his gut. Steve's hands are cupped around his face again, whole and careful, and Bucky feels drunk on it. He can't look at him. He can't not look at him. "I didn't want you to come. They wouldn't call you back."

"I wouldn't have picked up, they knew that."

"Can we go?"

"Yeah," Steve says immediately; and one hand catches Bucky's fingers with some backward twist that allows him to throw Bucky's arm over his shoulder in one fluid motion. It's atrociously casual; in surreptitious support of him while he walks.

And Bucky's definitely still drugged, or something, because even this affects him. His stupid molasses brain tries to put together whether or not they should tell Wilson they're leaving, but he throws a glance over his shoulder to see Romanov smiling lopsidedly at him, so he figures that's mission accomplished. He blinks forward and tries to ignore the thrumming in his chest, in his limbs, in his whole damned body.

It takes him a moment of staring at the motorcycle to figure out that he's gonna have to ride behind Steve on this thing.

In the one respect, being _taken home_ after a mission on the _back of his boyfriend's motorcycle_ is beyond humiliating.

In another… it is super fucking hot.

It feels easy, somehow, to step onto the motorcycle the second after Steve does; to wrap his arms around his waist and rest his weight against his back. Just a little reprieve. To relax a little. As long as he doesn't overthink it.

Unless he wants to overthink it.

"This okay?" he mutters, resting his face against Steve's shoulderblade.

Steve's neck twists around. "Fine for me. Hang on a sec."

Then he kicks the accelerator to life and settles back down where he began.

It _has_ to be the goddamn sedative affecting him for what this does to him.

Bucky relaxes against Steve and lets himself be driven home. He can tell he's injured by the sting of his skin against the dressings, but he can't find it in him to peel himself back. Instead, his hands find their way slowly under the hem of Steve's shirt, and he presses his palm against his abs to feel them vibrate along with the engine beneath him.

Steve doesn't say a word; only shakes his head with apparent incredulity. When one leg extends out far at a stoplight, Bucky doesn't need to move a muscle for the bike to stay upright.

So he doesn't. He takes the opportunity to map the landscape of Steve's skin more thoroughly, pressing his lips where Steve's shoulderblades jut from his jacket -- just the gentlest of sighs. Steve sighs, too, but if it's harsher than Bucky's he still doesn't stop him.

"Where d'you keep this thing, Rogers?" Bucky mutters.

"Never you mind."

"Gonna see anyway."

"Gonna park it out front."

"Don't baby me."

"They tried to _flay_ you, Bucky."

"I'm _fine._ "

Steve turns his head just enough to glare at him.

"I'll be healed up before we even get home."

"Even I don't heal that fast."

"Oh, and you're the platonic ideal of healing and metabolism?"

"Frankly, yeah."

"Tough talk, Rogers."

"Shut up and heal already, would you?"

It's hard to argue with, particularly when the light turns green and the engine revs back to life beneath him. With his fingers still flexed against the taut skin of Steve's stomach, Bucky smiles and does as he's told.

He doesn't let go right away when they pull in up front of their building. When Steve sits up straighter, Bucky only lifts himself gently in his seat -- sets his lips against Steve's neck, his hands holding him close and hard and flush before him.

Steve's face finds the sky in exasperation. "Bucky…"

"Steve."

"No. Let go so I can get off."

"You sure you don't want to show me where you park it?"

He can visualize the precise flutter of his eyelids. "Bucky."

"Come on, Rogers." Bucky moves his lips slow, and moves his hands too; splays them, metal and flesh, as wide as he can make them over Steve's waist. "Show me where you park it."

"I can't believe you."

"I'm fine. I'm healed. I wouldn't try to seduce you while actively bleeding."

"I somehow really doubt that." Steve's head falls forward. "We have neighbours."

"They've met us."

"You're dressed like Captain America."

"Better show me where you park it then. Wouldn't want to get caught making time with Captain America on your motorcycle, right?"

It takes a tweak of Steve's nipple to get his breath to halt tellingly in his chest, but then he sighs and kicks the bike into gear again.

When it's even better the second time he does that, Bucky decides it's probably _not_ the sedation affecting him after all.

  


  


  


Steve shows him where he parks it.

Steve also has the decency to sit perfectly still, a furious sigh in his chest, while Bucky spends the time it takes the storage room door to close undoing the clasp of Steve's pants, still seated behind him, figuring out how to get leverage from some back panel of the bike all the while. Steve's only movement is when his foot shifts forward to kick stays under the bike's front wheel, first on one side, then the other.

"You're impossible," Steve says, when the door hits the floor.

"You're so hot on this thing." Bucky's been scraping his teeth against Steve's earlobe, humming low and deep in the back of his throat, and he knows Steve is getting into it from the arch of his back. "How long were you gonna keep this a secret?"

"Not a secret."

"We live together."

"I know that."

"We live together and you didn't even tell me you owned a _motorcycle?_ "

"We are going home," Steve says slowly, as though convincing himself. "We are going to assess whether or not you should be taken to urgent care."

"I'm fine, Steve, I told you."

A tense beat. Bucky clicks his tongue against his sudden marmish sensibilities.

"I have concern for you," Steve says.

"Yeah, I know you do. It's very touching." 

Bucky's hand has found Steve's dick, half-hard and heavy, so Steve takes a steadying second to reply. "Are you being serious right now?" he asks, still incredulous.

"I want you to fuck me on this bike."

Steve inhales. It seems involuntary. " _Bucky._ "

"Oh my god." Steve's response is all he needs. "You want to fuck me on this bike, too, don't you Steve?"

"I _want_ you to tend to your injuries."

"I'm okay. I swear."

"Bucky."

"I love the way you say my name when you're pissed."

"I'm _concerned._ "

"I'm fine, okay? -- Look." Bucky's not quite sure what he does, but the end matters more than the means. His instincts lead him to grapple around the bike until his back's to the handlebars, his hands on Steve's thighs as he faces him. "I'm spry. I stopped bleeding. It barely even hurts, Steve, pl--"

Steve cocks his head at Bucky's sudden aborted sentence, his slow blink conveying all. "Your little flip just now cancels out the fact of your _torture_ , does it?"

"I'm _fine_ , I feel fine. _God_." His fists clench in Steve's jacket; he tugs himself closer into Steve's space. "Do you know what you look like right now?"

Steve's eyebrows hit the ceiling. "Do you know what _you_ look like right now?"

"Bruises and flesh wounds. They only got me in the first place because of the sedative."

This was not the right thing to say. " _Sedative._ "

Bucky's mouth pinches into a rueful half-smile, even as his hands slide Steve's coat off his shoulders. He starts to reply, but at the sight of him, this big man straddling this ridiculous machine with his pants undone and his muscles set poised, his breath stops in his chest. 

"You're so beautiful, Steve," Bucky says, instead of what's planned. He isn't sure he knows he's said it until it's out.

Steve is frowning at him. "Do you see why I'm having a problem here?"

Bucky tries to focus. "Yes."

"If our positions were reversed and I asked you--"

But he stops. Bucky's smile spreads slow over his face. He knows exactly what Steve was about to say.

"If you showed up broken and bleeding out of a fight and asked me to fuck you," Bucky finishes for him -- quiet, plying -- "would I?"

"Okay." He clears his throat. The discussion must be getting him somewhere, because Steve's hands are on _Bucky's_ thighs, now, gripping softly, mapping carefully. "Bad example."

"I used to do that for you all the time. You'd take on the whole world given the chance, but you could still never win a fight. That used to wind you up so bad, Rogers."

Steve's eyes are closed, but he's nodding, slow and resigned. "And you didn't win the fight today."

This time, when the silence builds in him, it's not quite as much fun. "I--" 

Bucky's throat forces him to stop; he cuts short, breathes harshly into and out of his chest. Steve's eyes snap open; he looks at him with renewed concern. 

"It's just been a long time since anyone bested me, I guess," he says eventually, when Steve's fingers reach up to run gentle along his jaw.

"But they didn't," Steve tells him. "You got out. You weren't bested at all."

"They got me with a _tranq dart._ Jesus. What is that?"

"They're Hydra. They'll get in a lucky shot from time to time. They've taken us both down before, but we're still here, aren't we?" A wan smile. "We're a team now. Sam and Nat showed up for you; I showed up for you. We made sure you got out. We wouldn't have left you behind."

They did get him out. That's true. Bucky hadn't fully realized that until now.

"Thank you," he says suddenly, his voice ringing wrong in his throat.

"You don't need to thank me." Sincerity blooms so full in Steve's tone, and it is agony to endure. "It's what we do. You know that."

Bucky nods, his hands tugging dumbly at Steve's shirt. "Steve."

"Yeah, Buck."

"Will you please -- fuck me on this bike."

If Steve blinks slow with exasperation, he also smiles, reluctant and steady. "Fine," he says then; and without further delay he pulls Bucky in, his other hand at his back, as though there'd never been any reason to hesitate in the first place.

It escalates quickly. Bucky's hips are pulled forward. Steve's mouth is hot and ready, and Bucky moans into it, shifting his legs, finds purchase on the foothold. He maneuvers himself into Steve's lap, and it's precarious, but Bucky loves it -- loves the way Steve's seated on this thing, the way he has to rut up against Steve to get friction. He loves the way his legs shake at the angle, with Steve's hands holding him steadily aloft.

"Get this off me," Bucky tells him, replacing Steve's hand at the open flap of his uniform while Bucky tugs at Steve's shirt.

"We don't have," Steve mutters as he peels the uniform off Bucky's torso; but then he stops and says, "nevermind," and bends suddenly off the side of the bike to lean into the nearest storage box.

Bucky frowns at him, then around the room, trying to blink himself out of his lustful haze for long enough to figure this out. "Wait, is this all your stuff?"

"I'm not sure three boxes qualifies as _stuff_."

"What kind of stuff is it?"

"Clutter. Gifts. Things I don't use." He comes back up with a bottle of lube.

Bucky stares at him. "Things you don't use."

"Well. Things I haven't used in a long time."

Bucky thinks about this, then frowns. "You're using lube you used with someone other than me right now?"

"I'm taking you for all you're worth on my motorcycle with this lube I used with someone other than you, yes."

It's a good answer. Bucky has no response to it. Steve's face breaks into a grin as he pulls Bucky back in and kisses him again, an elbow hooked behind his neck.

"Are you really gonna fuck me on this motorbike?" Bucky asks against his lips as he unscrews the bottle.

"Do you really want me to?"

"Yeah."

"Then yeah," says Steve.

Bucky takes a breath against the affection flooding him. "Okay. How?"

Steve leans back and looks at him with furrowed brow. "Is that really your concern?"

"You--" Bucky licks his lips, his sentence interrupted by a nagging smile. "You want me to sit on your cock, Steve? I could sit on your cock."

But Steve doesn't reply; he merely sets the lube aside, newly uncapped, and stoops over the side of the bike, standing long enough to put stays under the back wheel as one hand holds the seat.

"Does that mean you don't know yet," Bucky asks, leaning to try to catch his eye, "or that you've _also_ thought about this and know exactly how we're gonna go about this? Just give me a hint, Rogers, anything at all."

Steve has lifted one of Bucky's feet from its perch on steel chrome and is pulling off his boot when he looks blandly up at him. "I've never thought about fucking you on this bike."

But Bucky knows him too well to quite take this at face value. "You've thought about _me_ fucking _you_ on this bike…?"

Steve leans the other way, tosses off Bucky's other boot, and responds only with a pointed look.

"Fuck." Bucky licks his lips and looks at the ceiling. "You're too good to me, Steve."

"I don't scratch the surface." Steve wraps an arm around Bucky's waist as he straightens up, and he supports Bucky's weight easily, the other hand coaxing the uniform off from around his hips. "I like your idea better."

"You do, huh?"

"Yeah." Steve surprises him then by leaning forward and kissing him once more, his shaking inhale the only counterpoint to the steady hands that lean him back to rip the uniform off from his legs.

Bucky holds onto him for dear life, heady when Steve grips at his hips and pulls him back into his lap.

"You want to change your mind," Steve says, voice soft, his hand reaching wide for the lube as Bucky's feet find purchase on the bike again. "You say so."

Bucky knows, on some level, that he's had a rough day and that it's a reasonable request. "Just fuck me already," is what he says.

Steve nods; wraps his lube-slicked hand around Bucky's dick, the other hand putting the bottle aside. "Put your arms around my neck."

Bucky lets Steve maneuver him until Steve's got a finger pressed at his ass, looking up at Bucky where he's poised above him with clear eyes.

"You're sure?"

" _Jesus,_ yes, fucking do it already, I swear to--"

Steve starts tracing slow, wet circles, his other hand gripping gentle and unmoving at his cock.

In a matter of seconds, the shiver starts needling at Bucky's spine. It takes less than a minute to turn him into a sighing, shaking mess.

Here is what Bucky loves about when Steve takes the lead.

Steve occupies a position of strength unlike anything Bucky's ever seen. Brute force has never appealed to him; he prefers the scenic route, the detoured approach, and yet the results are so effective. It is not that he is ever coy; he never abandons his intentions for a second. As he's working Bucky open he is open himself, he is blatantly transparent, he is watching Bucky every single second as he works to unwind him, his mouth against his skin as though wanting to devour him.

It is not long before Bucky is pushing himself off and back onto two of Steve's fingers, held steady but prying all the while, his arms barely able to hold as they cling to Steve's neck.

"You're already so good for me," Steve mutters suddenly. It always kicks Bucky up a notch when Steve's arousal starts to show; his voice breaks in his throat, his pace pushing Bucky harder. "I see why you wanted to sit on my cock. Look at you. You want me." Steve's other hand has been grasping loosely at Bucky's erection, but here his fist tightens, and Bucky's hips stutter. "Wanna give you another, Buck. Think you can take it?"

Bucky nods. His eyes have closed; his hands are clenching at the base of Steve's hair. Steve's hand moves to steady Bucky's hip, then the bright, slow stretch of tension as Steve's fingers move again.

"That's good." Bucky tries to get traction again, tries to move the way he was, but Steve's hand at his hip is commanding and staying. Steve twists his hand, then, in punishment or reward; and Bucky's breath breaks hard, his gut striking fierce, the pressure of Steve's hand at his hip seeming to link direct to his cock. Steve twists against his prostate again and Bucky's so hard now, Christ he's so hard, he tries to grind harder down but Steve holds him ever steady.

"Almost there, Buck. I want to make you feel this, first."

Steve makes good, all right. Bucky feels it. Bucky feels every twinge of it, every white hot stretch. Steve slips out of him sudden, and Bucky gasps at the loss of it; but he only opens his eyes to see Steve coating his hand in lubricant again and tilting back into him, hitting right where he wants it, leaving Bucky seeing stars. 

Bucky's cock is twitching, desperate for friction and finding none. He moves; Steve holds him down.

"Stay," Steve whispers, hand hard at his hip. "Just stay a sec. Feel this."

And so Bucky stays, stretched full with Steve's fingers.

He can't look at Steve. He can't not look at him. He feels, only feels it -- a gentle push in; a gentle withdrawal. 

Tension builds and builds, leaving him devastated. Steve doesn't change pace.

"Please," Bucky whispers, when he can't take any more.

Steve lunges forward, then, and takes Bucky whole.

He's kissing Bucky so open that Bucky can't breathe. His hands clench against him, pulling harsh in his hair. Steve's fingers start to withdraw, and Bucky moans his sudden protest; but then they push in again, fucking him as he kisses him.

Bucky's thighs shake. Steve takes it in. He takes in every sound Bucky makes; offers a few of his own. Steve stays steady, pumping, holding Bucky down.

Bucky thinks he means to make him come from this until his unoccupied hand sets at his back instead.

Steve stands, if awkwardly, without breaking the kiss. With an agonizing care, he shifts Bucky down into the seat where he'd just been sitting. The hand at his back supports Bucky's weight, the other fucking him all the while -- slow, finding new angles, until Bucky's been lain flat back along the still-warm metal, body spanning long between the seat and the handlebars.

Bucky's head tips back. Steve's still buried in him. He leans in to move his lips against Bucky's throat, soft, a grin trailing in the wake of each kiss. Steve teases him here, his fingers still moving; and it's only once his hand has grasped around Bucky's ankle that Steve leans back and withdraws from within him. 

Steve maneuvers Bucky's ankle until it's hitched over his shoulder and wastes no time in ducking for the other. Bucky is left scrambling for purchase as his balance abandons him -- his hands find the handlebars by his shoulders.

Steve's lips trail over Bucky's calf as he props his other leg over his shoulder, too, and Bucky understands what Steve plans now. The metal at his back is edging on hot and Steve's bending over him, he's pressing against Bucky so good with the tip of his cock and fuck, oh fuck, he means to bend him in half here, oh _fuck_ \--

As though knowing it might save him, Steve leans back then, reaching for the lube and a cloth out of the nearby open box. He is still standing poised, his thighs are still engaged, and Bucky takes him in with his wrists looped over the handlebars. 

He watches, mouth open, cock lying hard and leaking over himself, as Steve slicks himself with lube. His hand flicks lazily over his own cock again and again. Steve watches him as he does it; gives the head of his own cock an unneeded squeeze, then swallows, his eyelids flickering, clearly getting off on the sight of Bucky below him.

"You look--" Steve shakes his head. "God, Bucky, you _look_... you should see yourself. I could come just from this, just from looking at you, you know that?"

Oh, Christ. Oh, god, he wouldn't do that. It sounds like a promise, but he wouldn't draw this out. He wouldn't make Bucky wait that long.

Would he?

"Please," Bucky finds himself whispering, watching Steve keep on stroking himself off. Steve looks so good, he looks _so_ good, this is everything Bucky wanted and more and for the love of _god_ if Steve doesn't fuck him, if he does not make good on his word and take him for all he's worth--

"You need it, though, don't you?" Steve asks him, so maybe he understands, oh please, please god, please say he understands.

"Yes," Bucky replies readily. "Yes. Steve, Jesus, can you _please--_ "

But Steve's already leaning slowly forward, his hand has finally stopped slicking his own cock, and Bucky bends _so_ good for him with his ankles up on Steve's shoulders. One of his hands braces at Bucky's side, the other one running up the line of Bucky's thigh to cup his ass; and, with the head of his cock pressed against him again, Bucky is left breathing in harsh, shattered bursts, consumed by the anticipation of his cock pushing in.

The hand at Bucky's ass moves just slightly; a finger traces around the point where Steve's cock is waiting to fill him, slow, gentle, wet with lube. 

"God, Bucky," Steve mutters, looking at him, not fucking him. "I wish you could see what you look like. I wish you could see yourself right now. _Jesus._ "

Bucky shudders, his hands gripping stronger at the handlebars. "Please -- will you _please_ just--"

It is the begging that seems to do it, that moves Steve into action -- into pushing his hips forward, inch by devastating inch. He holds Bucky down against metal and leather, his hands dragging Bucky's hips deeper, fuller, onto his dick, and Bucky feels -- resplendent, with every inch of Steve that buries in, with the way his body folds into a deeper bend, putting him at Steve's every whim. 

By the time Steve meets resistance, Bucky's head has thrown back over the handlebars. He wants to be _taken_ like this, he wants Steve to thrust hard and deep until Bucky's vision blurs, with his arms and legs poised just like this, helpless but to take what he is given.

" _God_ ," Steve says, and pauses here, buried halfway. His voice is wrought and ruined. Once again, he does not move.

"Please," Bucky whispers, in case it helps him.

And it does. Steve pulls out of him. Bucky takes in a jagged inhale at the loss, and Steve groans soft, as though missing it just as much.

When Steve pushes in again, it is with both thumbs pressing hard against Bucky's hipbones, as though to hold him to the seat. Bucky loves it, oh god, he wants more of it, he wants more. Every breath comes to him harsh, the metal is just this side of too hot under his shoulderblades, and Bucky almost died today. Hydra almost killed him. Hydra tortured him, a little; he knows how to admit it now that it's not the most important thing that happened today. But he was rescued from it, from his captors; and now at Steve's hands, he's being delivered from it again. If mentally, this time, Bucky is being taken _home._

Wanting and taking this way, Bucky feels human. Times like these save him in very real respects. The only thing left in his head -- the only shred of knowledge that he knows or that matters -- is that he is _Steve's_. He is at Steve's whim, and Steve will not harm him. Steve is going to take him for all he is worth, which means Bucky will feel he is worth the _world_. 

Sometimes the only good thing Bucky _knows_ is the fact that Steve loves him this much -- enough to ignore the wounds he carries with him, each and every one of them, and bring him to this place as though he was worthy.

Sometimes, when Steve holds him like this, Bucky is free.

Steve pulls out. He pushes in. His hands come up, one at a time, to wrap gently around Bucky's fingers at the handlebars.

Steve pulls out again. Bucky lets all of the tension out of his neck. He closes his eyes and shudders and shakes.

Steve pushes in. A twisted sound leaves Bucky's lungs. He forces his head back up again; meets Steve's eye before he can even ask him to look at him.

Steve says it anyway, purrs it, " _Look_ at me," even with Bucky's eyes already locked on him. Because that is part of it. That is part of how this goes. Steve takes Bucky apart one slow thrust of his hips at a time, makes him _feel_ every second, every fraction of an inch that Bucky takes of him -- and he makes Bucky watch as he does it, because that's how he makes sure Bucky knows he's worth the world to him.

Steve's eyes are the same ravenous blue they ever are, clear and hungry, and Bucky loves it, here, under his watchful eye.

"I am going to take you for all you're worth," Steve tells him again, voice dense with conviction.

Bucky sure believes him. He swallows; he nods. When he tries to move his fingers under Steve's hands, Steve only shakes his head and fucks slow, steady, pushing further into him bit by bit. Bucky holds his eye all the while, through the sounds breaking in his throat, and he finds quiet, after a minute, matching Steve's steady breathing, his eyelids still flickering each time Bucky feels full and alight.

A note in Steve's throat, now. Slow. Slow and deep.

When Steve bottoms out inside him, he pauses -- he _stays._

"You're so good for me, Bucky," Steve mutters, still holding at Bucky's hands. "You're so good for me, you look so, so good. Look at you, Bucky. Fucked on my motorbike."

Bucky is thrumming, he is full, he is _fucked on Steve's motorbike_. He probably does look so good. He can still only nod, lips parted.

"I like this," Steve says. "I like seeing you like this, here. I could ride you both at once this way. You know."

Bucky's breath leaves him all at once.

_Holy fuck._

His heart races, suddenly. His breathing kicks up again, rapid and desperate. He hopes Steve understands, and he seems to, because--

"I could take you out like this, fucked on me, so good for me, looking like this. Everyone would see." Steve's hips drive slowly, slowly back at last, and he is really going to do this, he is really going to talk this way and fuck him at the same time. Bucky groans so loud when it sinks in just how hard he's going to fuck him, how hard and deep Steve's going to work into him, and how it's going to be worth it, so worth it, when he finally gets to come. "Everyone would see how good you look, Bucky. How good you are. How--" Steve pushes in again -- "How fucking -- _perfect_ you are, so willing, so wanting. I'd hold you just like this and I'd fuck into you when I could, and I'd keep you full the rest of the time, just how you like. Bottomed out. I know you like to stay full for me."

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Bucky says, and gives up holding Steve's eye. He lets his head roll back and his throat expose, and there's a lump in it, thick and impassable, and Bucky's hands are locked under Steve's on either side of him. His ankles are thrown over Steve's shoulders, he is trapped and he _taken,_ and he is fucked, he is so fucked, he can't catch his breath; tears fall from his eyes.

"God, Bucky, I'd love that so much. To show others how you are, everything that you are, if you wanted. You'd take my cock so good, you'd be so full with me. You'd be just like this, so fucked, the engine running hot--"

Bucky imagines it before Steve can say it: the way the bike would vibrate underneath him. The way _Steve_ would vibrate with it, but not the same way. The way Bucky would feel with Steve's cock in him, with the engine running, loud and bassy and filling Bucky's chest. Steve's hands would be locked over his just like this and he would ride him, he would ride them, they would ride, just like this. He imagines himself fucked, free, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, knowing only that Steve was fucking him and showing everyone what they had and what they were. What Bucky meant to him. How Steve could make him feel.

The sound that finally finds its way out of him is a _whine,_ transformed out of its baser form by raw emotion. It would have been embarrassing if Bucky cared about anything except the way Steve was filling him, again and again, in time with the words still falling from his lips.

"Oh, Bucky, _you like this_ , impaled on me, _god_. I would ride you so good, I would make you come so hard, so much. I want to make you feel so much. Bucky -- Buck -- I want nothing more, you know that? Oh, Jesus, I wish you could see yourself. I wish you could see -- I love you so much, you gotta know. Look at me. Bucky, look at me, please."

Bucky finds the last shred of control he has left within him and uses it to look at Steve. He is fucking him in earnest, now, his hips pumping, the sweat of effort and restraint bright on his skin, and Bucky loves him, loves to see this in him, the way he puts everything he has into making Bucky feel this way.

"Hold on for me," Steve says then, and his hands leave Bucky's cold. It's worth it; one slides gentle against Bucky's face, the other wrapping hot around his dick, and Bucky's sure his knuckles must go white in time with the gasp wrested out of him when Steve bends down and sets his forehead flush against his.

Steve's breath is hot on his lips, his fingers are so good wrapped around him, and his dick is still pumping into him, sweet Jesus, there's that hot pulse, the arch of his back, it won't be long now. "You don't get to clock out from this, you understand? I will show up for you every time. I will make you feel like this as much as you need. I will make you come for me again and again, however you want, Bucky. Come for me now, Buck, please come for me, I want you to--"

When he does, it is with his whole body -- his chest surging forward, his head throwing back into the fullness of it, into the way Steve pushes hard into him when he does, a jagged cry bursting out of his throat.

Steve's hands cling to his ribs as he pumps harder, faster, and Bucky rides every hit against his prostate; comes in furious bursts. Only when Bucky starts to spiral down, when the arch of his back collapses once, and then twice, do Steve's fingers dig in as he rides him hard, Steve's orgasm somehow hitting with only the quiet intake of a breath.

The thing is that Steve needs this, too; Bucky knows. Steve bears his burdens well, but there are some things that leave him scrambling. Bucky in peril is always one of them. Bucky may be a state of blank white haze, but he's never immune to what Steve needs, and so Bucky holds on and on and onto him until Steve finally pulls out and collapses against Bucky's chest.

Bucky's knees hook over Steve's shoulders, instead, the tears still running mutely down his face. He racks gentle fingers through Steve's hair as Steve finds motion again, his hands dragging down Bucky's form, tracing over his ribs, his hips, his ass, his legs.

"That what you have in mind?" Steve asks eventually, his voice sounding groggy as he sits up in the seat; and from the way he rubs a thumb not so surreptitiously at his cheekbone as he rises, Bucky suspects he wasn't the only one temporarily lost to emotion.

Bucky's usual remark is swallowed by the humility still consuming him at the intensity of Steve's care, so he merely nudges at Steve's chest with his feet until Steve finally catches them in his hands.

"Thank you," Bucky croaks, involuntarily, when Steve's thumbs scan caringly over the bones of his ankles.

And Steve smiles at him and nods gently, kissing Bucky's stupid clammy feet one after the other.

"That is fucking disgusting," Bucky says loudly, his voice shocked suddenly into sounding almost normal. "Do not kiss me on my mouth with that mouth."

The immediate quirk of Steve's mouth is enough to make Bucky realize his mistake. It's a brief and cautious struggle before Steve manages to pin him down against the bike again and start kissing him stupid, leaving Bucky laughing into his whole disgusting mouth.

"I hate you," Bucky says, and loops Steve in close, his hands clenching suddenly in his hair.

Steve grows serious, too. "I know," he says only, and kisses him, _so_ so gently, and Bucky takes it in to the core of him and _stays._

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> Bucky is being fucked on Steve's motorcycle and Steve is describing the prospect of driving around on the motorbike while actively fucking him. Phrases like "everyone would see how you get for me" are repeatedly used; however, instead of being intended to make Bucky feel embarrassed for himself, it's intended to remind Bucky how much Steve cares for him. Bucky responds positively and as intended, and does not feel degraded by the prospect.


End file.
